


To Bear His Mark

by Blush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Dom/sub, Host Clubs, Long suffering!John, M/M, Riding Crop, dubious-consent, house slave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blush/pseuds/Blush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scotland Yard ran out of cases for him a month ago and Sherlock is drowning in his own boredom. He is issued a reprieve, however, in the form of an invitation only high end Gentleman's Club. Located in the more Posh part of London, Sherlock's hopes were not high--until he spills wine on a black booted, black clad ex-serviceman by the name of John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Invitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScotlandYard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandYard/gifts).



The corpse sat atop crumbling cobblestones amid the dusting of an old, abandoned warehouse. Blood and grey matter splattered over the stones, some washed away in the short rainfall London had between the woman's fall and the 999 call. Sherlock received a call from Inspector Lestrade in the early morning hours, waking his fitful sleep, informing him someone called in a jumper. His hopes were high that this was a good case, an interesting case, but all hopes were dashed the moment he'd lain eyes on the body. 

 

The lamp light illuminated Sherlock's tired face making the dark circles around his eyes stand out even more. This his first case in a month and Sherlock felt like he was drowning in his own inability to keep occupied. Even the morgue at Bart's was empty and had been for quite some time. He couldn't force people to kill. Sherlock reached a gloved hand down, pressing against her ring finger, her temple, her neck, pushing aside brown hair damp with blood.

 

The angle in which the woman's body landed was wrong, if she had in fact jumped off the roof above her arms would not be outstretched as they are, reaching, as if to grab hold of something. He detected no smell of drugs or alcohol on her clothing, and the ring finger of her left hand bore a tan line. 

 

Lestrade, Sherlock could tell, was torn between Anderson's distinct voice yelling that this was an obvious suicide, and why, oh why was the freak here again...and the look on Sherlock's face that said this was so very obviously, a murder. Lestrade paced back and forth between the forensics team and the body, visibly trying to lessen their sight line of Sherlock. It wouldn't help, Anderson's breathing was still putting him off.

 

"Well?" Inspector Lestrade gave him a strained look, "I said five minutes, Sherlock, work with me here?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat, "Murder, definitely. Her body had tumbled down the side of the building, thrown out the top window most likely, not the roof...jilted ex-husband, obviously at the tan line on that ring finger. Recent divorce or separation. Anderson, shut up- your voice is irritating."

 

Donovan protested, but Lestrade just held up a hand, silencing her.

 

"You're sure?" Lestrade, as always, was astonished. 

 

"Murder. Quite sure. She was thrown out the window on the," he looked up, "fourth floor, probably an office, judging by that open window up there. Honestly, I don't know why you insist on calling me in on these simple cases, Lestrade. Though looking at the state of your team makes me sympathetic to your plight."

 

Anderson, who never held him in much regard either, flicked him a gloved middle finger saying ,"Piss off, freak." 

 

"Gladly. Call me when you have something interesting, Lestrade."

 

Lestrade shook his head, still puzzled, and Sherlock sighed and added, "I'll send you the proof in the morning." He dragged a hand through messy dark curls and over his face and caught the inspector staring intently at him. 

 

"Wait just a minute. Have you been taking care of yourself? You look thin...and pale, even for you." Lestrade flashed a look of concern. Sherlock made a mental note to eat something later if only to shut him up. 

 

Sherlock waved a hand in the air wildly, "I'm bored, Lestrade. Bored, bored, bored! I need some excitement! Give me a serial killer, give me a challenge!"

 

Donovan rolled her eyes and said, "Give me a break."

 

Lestrade ignored the Sergeant, "You sure you're alright then?" 

 

"Fine, yes thank you." And with a flick of his coat Sherlock took off down the darkened street to hail a taxi.

 

***

 

The light's of the taxi flashed brightly against the grey stone of the building as it pulled up to 221B Baker Street lighting up a well known car and it's owner. Sherlock thought quickly about having the driver drive on but changed his mind. Regardless, Mycroft had the ability to find him no matter where he went. He tossed some bills through the window with a quick nod and turned to face his brother.

 

Mycroft was as plump and rosy cheeked as always living up that rich lifestyle of his as a government official. Tonight he wore the same suit that went out of fashion twenty years ago, leaning on that damned umbrella. He wouldn't let Mycroft know he flustered him to no end. 

 

"Sherlock," Mycroft's smile somehow never reached his eyes, "how good of you to see me on such short notice."

 

"You give me no options, Mycroft. Obviously I detest your very presence at my flat." Sherlock made to move past him but Mycroft held a black umbrella to his chest, a barrier between Sherlock and the door. 

 

Mycroft chuckled, his tailored black suit was still crisp even at this early hour. Sherlock skirted him and approached the door to the flat, flicking a glance over his right shoulder at the open car door. Anthea, his brainless assistant, sat inside with her long legs stretched out onto the sidewalk and her fingers flying expertly on her mobile.

 

"Anthea, say hello to my brother."

 

She looked up, lazily.

 

"Hello."

 

And back she went to her texts. Sherlock swore one day he would figure out a way to steal her mobile, see just exactly what was so important she couldn't leave it be for even a moment. He could potentially have a homeless man pick pocket it or...

 

Sherlock was already lost in thought, planning different ways to get hold of her precious possession and Mycroft shook his head.

 

"I have an invitation for you Sherlock, to the Gentleman's Club in the downtown district. It's a black tie, invitation only affair and I trust you will be on your best behaviour."

 

Sherlock was puzzled, "And why would I be so inclined as to attend something that sounds so tedious and boring?" Rich men, drinking whisky and smoking cigars talking about their glory days, most likely. 

 

Anthea's small laugh made him turn and glare in her direction. Interestingly enough, she actually does listen to the conversations around her.

 

"Because Lestrade seems to think you aren't taking care of yourself, brother. And I think we all know your boredom is generally the cause of that. No current cases catching your fancy then? You need a hobby, Sherlock, something to keep that spinning mind of yours occupied."

 

He hadn't realized the CCTV's had that far a reach into the abandoned warehouse district, "And you think this club can keep me entertained?"

 

"I know it can. I also know that you're drowning Sherlock, and that you can't keep this up. It's a façade, Lestrade sees it, I see it and even Mrs. Hudson sees it. She told me you haven't bought anything other than tea in over a week. You cannot keep living like this, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock turned away from the unwanted words and unlocked the door to the flat. He brushed off the insinuation that he needed anything he didn't already have.

 

"Good day brother," Sherlock said tersely.

 

"Wait, Sherlock...I can alleviate your boredom, I promise you that. All I ask is that you try it out just the once...if you hate it I won't ask again."

 

Sherlock reached desperately for excuses but came up empty handed. He was drowning, he could feel it with every breath he breathed, like every second that went by without a case was sucking the very air from his lungs. 

 

Mycroft sees the minute changes in Sherlock's stature, the slight shoulder slump that indicated he'd won.

 

He tapped the steel tip of the umbrella on the ground and said, "The address is 357 Victoria Street and the function starts precisely at seven, it's a black and white...so be presentable." Mycroft's eyes softened, "Trust me, just this once Sherlock, trust me."

 

Sherlock pretends to contemplate it, like he had any other option at hand, and says in a low voice, "Sounds tedious," and slams the door in Mycroft's face. 

 

But Mycroft knew he would come.

 


	2. Orientation

Sherlock had been bored for four whole weeks by the time Mycroft got to him. The days after their meeting came and went without another phone call from Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock's experiments were fermenting on this kitchen table, results inconclusive. He had enough of bad telly and Mrs. Hudson's concerned soft knocks on the door and reserved himself for bad company for the evening. 

 

He lay back on the couch, mobile clutched to his chest, hoping, waiting for that text message to come through from Scotland Yard. He already skimmed his brain for something else to do but came up empty. It was Thursday, he knew. If he didn't receive a call from Lestrade he would have no other option but to please Mycroft and attend tonight's evening at the Gentleman's club.

 

It was hopeless really--to please Mycroft would be to displease himself and yet he feared he may start cooking up some business for Scotland Yard himself in the interm.

 

Perhaps he could find a flatmate, someone else with a scientific flare-perhaps Molly, no not Molly...she's too...boring. Needy even.

 

Sherlock glanced at the old clock on the wall, six o'clock already. He needed to shower and change soon if he was to make it on time. Perhaps he would wear a jumper and slacks instead of his suit, that ought to piss off Mycroft. He smiled at the thought of walking into a room of rich, superior beings dressed like a pauper. 

 

There were no other options...he must go.

 

"God damned it Lestrade! This is all your fault," he tossed the mobile across the room and it landed with a smack against the far wall. 

 

Sherlock was sulking and he knew it. Reluctantly he convinced himself he needed to get up and slowly walked to the shower like a man on death row. 

 

***

 

The taxi pulled up to 357 Victoria Street with a flourish and Sherlock eyed the short line at the door. It was an imposing figure-the dark grey of the building in stark contrast to the darkening sky behind. The people he approached in the line were normal looking, if a bit posh in their own mind. They all wore black suits, some with caps, some clutching silver and black canes in their hands. None, not one, was in the least bit interesting.

 

Anthea stood by the door with a clipboard in her hand checking off names. Two men dressed in black uniforms and covered faces, security he realized, stood just behind. He felt apprehension build in his throat but shook it off, resolute in his decision to come.

 

Whatever Mycroft had said, he was in charge and could leave at any time if the night was below his expectations.

 

Finally it was his turn and Anthea tossed a bored look his way, she smiled in recognition, placing a light touch to his right elbow. She was dressed in a white frock that fell just above her knees, a red line pained vertically from her forehead to her cheek, completely crossing her right eye. Some sort of strange, decorative mark then. 

 

"Sherlock, your brother will be so excited you came." He detected no laughter or lie in her voice and determined that Mycroft would be happy he made him do anything Sherlock hadn't want to do in the first damned place.

 

"Yes, well, I was in the neighbourhood. Where is the old bloke anyway? Standing near the cake table, yes?"

 

Her eyes glittered as she checked his name off the list, "Oh, they don't serve cake here."

 

"Oh?," Sherlock looked at her sharply, her tone was mocking him, "and what do they serve?"

 

"You'll see. Mycroft asked me to ensure you were dressed completely in black, are you?"

 

"Why, would you undress me if I wasn't?"

 

"No...but someone else might." Her laugh tinkled behind him as he was ushered into a small, dark entry way. Invisible hands grasped the scarf from his neck, delicately, a woman's hands he deduced, and he was relieved of his coat as well. A push to the small of his back led him into a grand ballroom full of men of various ages dressed in black suits, some with canes, some wearing top hats. Government officials, he winced, how boring.

 

Mycroft spotted him and they met in the middle of the room and from what he could see there were black leather couches and chairs all about the room in various arrangements. The room was lit by candles and oil lamps dimmed to a near frighteningly low level, the corners of the room were barely discernible to him. The far end was impossible to see.

 

"Brother! I see you wore your suit like I asked...I'm sure you are going to be a natural at this."

 

"And what, pray tell, would 'this' be?"

 

Mycroft shrugged and waved his cane about the room. "All of it will be explained in good time."

 

The room was filling from a slow trickle at the door. Sherlock eyed the room, squinting to see what he realized were men standing at ease in random places about the room. Security, he realized. 

 

They were approached by a short, stout man who Mycroft introduced as Mike, the owner. Mike seemed like a friendly sort of fellow, with red cheeks and a smile pasted across his face. He stuck out his right hand and Sherlock took it, albeit reluctantly. It was hard to dislike someone so naturally kind.

 

"Welcome to the Gentleman's Club, Sherlock! I've heard a lot about you from your dear brother. I think he hopes this place will do justice by you. Honestly, if you don't find what you're looking for here I doubt you ever will anywhere!"

 

Sherlock frowned, he still wasn't exactly sure what it is he was supposed to be looking for.

 

"Come along then, we have some paperwork to fill out right proper and then we'll get you back out on the floor. Mycroft, d'you mind staying here? Needs to be confidential, you see."

 

Mycroft nodded his consent as Mike motioned to one of the security guards to follow them into a small office Sherlock had noticed earlier. 

 

"We call them coppers, even though they aren't really," Mike explained as they walked.

 

Inside, the copper shut the heavy oak door behind them with a sound of finality. The tension Sherlock had felt outside was back in full force. It was warm in the small room, too warm.

 

Mike rounded the desk and plopped into the leather chair and cricked his neck before saying, "Have a seat, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock hesitated, but sat. Where could he go anyway? And with what excuse? Sorry, left the telly on...back in a dash?

 

Sherlock watched Mike as he smiled again and shuffled some papers around on the desk top, searching for the right one. The copper stood just behind Sherlock's chair and to the right of him. It was an intimidation tactic--of that Sherlock was certain.

 

"Ah, here it is," he slid the delicate sheet of paper across the desk towards him, a pen as well.

 

"Just for confidentiality and all that, legal issues, you know. Don't take photographs, don't talk about the place with non-members, that sort of thing."

 

Sherlock skimmed the legal jargon and signed his name with a flourish at the bottom. The document was too boring to actually read. He set it back down with a bored expression.

 

Sherlock physically jumped when the copper's voice, low and gritty said, "Read it. All of it." 

 

Sherlock looked up at him from his seat and took in the man's appearance, unconsciously reaching a hand out to retrieve the abandoned paper from the desk. From head to toe he wore black, a deeper colour than the professional suits that everyone else wore. Instead his were of a military grade: cargo pants bloused into black combat boots, black tunic tucked into his pants, his mouth and nose was covered by a thin black material, a tuft of blond hair and his eyes were the only thing showing. Even his hands were covered in thick leather gloves. 

 

His hands were held gracefully, tightly, behind his back. Obviously an ex-serviceman with overseas experience. Interesting.

 

He dragged his eyes back to the paper in front of him and read every word.

 

When he was done he placed it back on the desk and looked back at the copper, for what? Approval? Sherlock scoffed. 

 

"Happy?" He tried to gather back any semblance of his dignity and decided to ignore the copper from that point on. Mike sat, still happily waiting with his hands under his chin.

 

He took the paper and filed it away into the first desk drawer.

 

"Perfect Sherlock, now, I've got a question for you...do you generally have submissive or dominant tendencies? Now remember, this is a safe place and we need you to be fully honest with us." He smiled again, oh how Sherlock wished he'd stop that.

 

What kind of a question was that anyway? Sherlock couldn't think of any way he was submissive in his life: at work he was in charge...constantly bothering Anderson and Donovan with his surety and confidence. So no, not submissive then, right?

 

Mike obviously realized how lost Sherlock was at the question, "Think back at previous sexual encounters, previous relationships," he explained, "Were you the one making the decisions or the one following along?"

 

Sherlock's lips were dry, his throat parched, but he forced the words past his lips, "I've had no previous relationships and sexual partners have been fleeting and minimal in number."

 

Mike frowned, his brow furrowed in wonder, "I honestly thought you would say dominant really, what with you choosing to wear black today. That's okay, Mycroft must not have explained the choice of garment for today."

 

The peaked Sherlock's interest. "What would he say if here were here, or, rather, what would he want me to say?"

 

"Oh," Mike waved a hand, dismissively, "Dominant, I'm quite sure."

 

"Submissive then." This, this is how Sherlock would get back at Mycroft...his tiny little way of getting under his skin. A minor victory but a victory just the same. 

 

The copper shifted almost imperceptibly and Sherlock knew he was angry again.

 

Mike cleared his throat, surprised, "You're sure?"

 

"Quite"

 

"Very well, this is the last form you must fill out. Your personal preferences, as they were. Whatever you check off the list will never be done to you while you are in this house."

 

Sherlock grasped the paper, it was thicker, almost parchment...like a contract. On it various sexual things were listed in thick script and he was given the option to opt out of any of them.

 

They were:

 

Submission  
Abrasion  
Aftercare  
Anal Torture  
Auction  
Bondage  
Discipline  
Breath Control  
Chastity  
Collar  
Consensual Non-consensuality  
Edgeplay  
Endorphin Rush  
Spanking  
Penetration  
Fire Play  
Impact Play i.e. cane, whip  
Knife Play  
Masochism  
Mummification  
Needleplay  
Wax Play

 

The room was silent as he considered his options. Some on the list sounded dangerous and outright painful. He was intrigued. He wanted it all.

 

"It's obviously not a complete list of everything BDSM related but we leave more of the messy, fetish related ones for the other clubs," Mike explained, "Can't have cribs about with full grown people in them, you see."

 

Sherlock slid the paper back across the desk and felt the coppers hand tightly grasp the back of his chair. Sherlock knew he pissed him off and was secretly pleased about it. 

 

"I'll cross none off the list, if you please. In fact I want to do all of them."

 

"Not one?" Mike sputtered.

 

The copper grew ever closer, even leaned down to his ear and growled, "This isn't a game you know, I'll be out on the floor dragging your crying body out of some private room because you have no idea what you're asking for!"

 

Sherlock flinched away, this man oozed power and suggestion in every word.

 

Mike held up a hand in protest, "John! Enough...he has the right to choose for himself." He turned his attention back to Sherlock when John backed far enough away, returning to his previous stance.

 

"I do hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock. I've not had one submissive come through here and have not one hard limit. Honestly, I can only think of one Dom with this exact list." 

 

Sherlock signed the paper ignoring both of their warnings. 

 

If he was to remain interested there had to be some challenge, some intrigue in it. 

 

Mike nodded and filed the remaining papers into the desk as well. "We have three rules here at the Gentleman's Club. Firstly, the general safe word is "red", you may use it whenever you like and a copper will instantly be there to assist you. Secondly, you may not touch anyone with a red mark about their face as they are house slaves belonging to a certain individual-unless of course, both parties are present. Third, you must never speak or touch a copper, excluding of course, this instance with John as your signing witness. Once on the floor you will not touch or speak to him, on pain of punishment. House punishments are dolled out by various coppers."

 

Good, Sherlock never wanted to speak to the man again, regardless of the rule. He was stiff, and condescending and perhaps a bit rude. 

 

"Off you go now, tonight you may observe or join in as you wish. It's unfortunate you are wearing the wrong colour. Every night has a different theme, you see."

 

"Yes," Sherlock thought back to Anthea's outfit of the night, "Slaves in white, I saw that."

 

"Take him to the floor, John."

 

John nods and places and hand about Sherlock's shoulder, guiding him up and out of the chair and out the door. 

 

Just outside the now closed oak door and just before they came into sight of the large ballroom John placed a gloved hand on Sherlock's chest, pushing him back into the wall. 

 

"You are too arrogant and ignorant for the floor. You're going to get eaten alive out there...I promise you." He was close, too close, almost suffocating Sherlock. His eyes bore into his own and Sherlock couldn't help the flush of heat that rose from the pit of his stomach. 

 

He had to say something! "Forgetting the rules, now are we?"

 

"No rule forbids me talking to you, now shut your mouth." 

 

He did.

 

Interesting, Sherlock almost deduced that John was worried, a small furrow of his brow appeared that hadn't been there before. 

 

Sherlock pursed his lips in disdain...was this really how it was to go? He shoved the copper and dodged around him until he was almost to the ballroom. He stood, straightened his tailored suit and flashed a look over his shoulder. 

 

Was John worried or angry? He insinuated terrible things about Sherlock that may or may not be true--and regardless, was it any of his business what he did? It was like having another Mycroft all over again.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and John took a menacing step towards him, fists clenched. 

 

Sherlock thought better about it and with a sudden finality concluded that John was a mystery, and one that needed to be solved.


	3. A Diversion

Sherlock spent the rest of the evening taking Mike's advice and observed the guests partaking in various sexual exploits. There were some private rooms where the doors were closed from public view and he'd steered clear of those, surely he was quite unwanted there. He'd made small talk with others and made the mistake of bumping an elbow into a house slave and was properly scolded for it by her owner. 

 

He found their tastes for rules highly irrelevant--if he wanted to speak to someone he would, simple as that. The far end of the main room, the end he hadn't been able to see because it was left in darkened shadow, housed multiple devices for torture. Different bindings, tables, rope, cages and an honest to God wooden rack stretched out across the back wall and almost all were currently occupied. House slaves were disrobed and attached to the various implements. Crash carts straight out of the hospital lined the wall just behind marked MEDICAL in black tape. Sherlock's stomach clenched as he grasped a leather chair facing the wall, lowering his body onto the soft cushion. He couldn't deny that it peaked his interest. Just how serious could these activities get that crash carts were needed, and just who staffed them?

 

A small woman in white approached the edge of his chair while he was deep in thought and poured him a glass of red wine. She had black hair and the darkest of red lips, a coy smile upon them-seeking, asking--for what?

 

Oh yes, he was still wearing his black attire and the lady obviously mistook him as a potential partner for the night.

 

He cut that hope like he would the green wire on a bomb, quick and sharp, with a low, "Uninterested...surely," but grasped the long stem of the offered glass between his fingers. He watched as she rushed away, head low, uncaring. 

 

From his vantage point there was a small pedestal in the corner of the room with a steel bar and two lonely brown leather cuffs hanging from it. As innocent as it looked compared to the rest of the equipment it seemed everyone steered clear of it.

 

Ordinarily, Sherlock would never watch people be spanked until they begged for penetration, gagged and choked to the point of near-asphyxiation, but today he did. And he found he was beginning to enjoy it.

 

A couple caught his eye, the submissive was blindfolded, ball-gagged and her dominant was manipulating her body, pushing her to her peak. His cock twitched involuntarily at the sight of her bound and helpless and completely at his mercy. His hands ran up and down her soft pale skin, tracing the black outline of a heart on her shoulder before striking her bottom unmercifully. With each strike she cried out around the gag, make up running from the tears in her eyes. Her whole body shook and twitched and Sherlock was overcome by it. He was almost ready to leap up to her rescue, to save her from that ungodly beating but finally the man stopped just as Sherlock stood up from the chair.

 

Her face was a mess, her glossy hair a rat's nest from the dominant pulling her head back over and over for eye contact as he beat her until she was bruised, broken and limp. He gasped and fled the scene as the man licked up her tears--her whimpers would be emblazoned on his brain forever. What kind of a place was this? No one acknowledged him and no one moved to follow. Mycroft was locked up in some room with Anthea, he was sure of it. He could make his escape right now before he dragged himself back out.

 

Sherlock's heart was racing as he kept his head down, completely forgetting the glass of wine until it tipped out of his hand as his long, gangly, extremities tripped on edge of a carpet near the door. Sherlock righted himself quickly enough but the glass went flying and he followed it in slow motion until it landed just short of the wall at the foot of a copper with blond, golden hair. John hadn't even flinched really, a feat in its own right. Sherlock was sure had it been him he would have moved out of the damned way.

 

People in the immediate vicinity, house slaves kneeling on the floor and their masters with them, stopped and watched. Sherlock cleared his throat and with a limp shrug of his narrow shoulders hesitatingly said, "Sorry, John. Red wine stains, you know."

 

Small gasps from some, indignant shouts and the sharp sounds of canes hitting the floor, from others. Some ran off shouting in their search for Mike, and the plump man appeared as if conjured.

 

Oh yes, hours had passed since he was read the rules and in all honestly he had been flustered, heart racing, and he'd just wanted to get out of there. Perhaps he could make for the door now, perhaps it wasn't too late?

 

Sherlock wished with all his heart he couldn't see John's disappointed face, the concerned furrow of his brow was back as he shook off small pieces of broken glass from his boots. Sherlock wasn't sure if the grave mistake was the spilt wine or the hasty apology. Yes, the door was a fantastic option.

 

Three steps and he could be outside--these people had no authority outside these terribly decorated walls, did they? 

 

Keeping his head down he continued his quick exit but was stopped prematurely from a hand heavily lain on the back of his neck. John's leather gloves, his compact frame, his ridiculous concern for him--all evident in the way he steered him back into the room, a hand grasped about his right arm and twisting it almost painfully behind his back.

 

The body felt hot pressed flushed to his and Sherlock was certain he would faint but he was above all that, wasn't he? Whatever these people wanted from him he could give it and walk away with a haughty smile and flick of his long coat, like always. John led him through the centre of the room to the unused corner with the steel bar.

 

Mike caught up with them and gave Sherlock the most minute of sympathetic glances saying, "You know, you were told and you did sign..."

 

Sherlock nodded, a lump in his throat. So he was to be punished for a moment of clumsiness and seven words of muttered apology. 

 

"Kneel, Sherlock."

 

It was like the weight of the words themselves tumbling from John's lips unhinged his knees and he fell heavily to them, the ground a welcome reprieve. He tried to keep his chin held high in defiance of the crowd that gathered but John took even that from him with a push to the back of his head. He looked at the ground now, not daring to risk a glance about the room. He could almost feel Mycroft's disappointing gaze burning a hole straight through his chest.

 

John knelt for a moment beside him, so close Sherlock could smell him, and asked, "Do you know why I'm doing this to you?" The material covering his face ruffled with his breath and his voice was not unkind but Sherlock dared not speak.

 

"Answer me." He spoke in a low soothing voice as he relieved him of his suit jacket and shirt. Sherlock shivered as the slight draft passed his skin and he tried to still his arms as John ran a gloved hand down the length of them as he attached them to the rod.

 

He shook his head, angry at the whole situation, really.

 

"I made a mistake...it was just an accident," Sherlock was horrified that his voice seemed so small and a tremor of fear ran through his body. John could feel it, he knew, his eyes still had that look in them as if he were to regret what must happen next.

 

John squeezed his shoulder and Sherlock thought if it was meant to calm him it wasn't working. He'd never felt this way-so helpless, so exposed, so...dominated. 

 

John motioned for someone to approach and was passed something into his left hand. Sherlock dared not look at it even though he was as curious as he'd ever been in his life.

 

"Seven lashes for seven words," John said loud enough to be heard by the crowd. They cheered and Sherlock pursed his lips and clenched his eyes shut. At least he need not face them.

 

The first strike coiled his body like a snake--it was something small in size, a riding crop he deduced through the haze of pain, the next six followed quickly. John was as efficient as he was strong and each strike seared the skin on his back as if he'd been burned by fire. At the end of it and after the crowd had dispersed, John lifted his chin with a finger and Sherlock found he was breathless and warm and ready for anything. His body was thrumming with life.

 

He could feel John's smile underneath the material as he said warmly, "Well done, Sherlock," and understood now that the insult was made to John personally when he's spoken without permission.

 

Yes, perhaps this was a good diversion for him after all.


	4. A Surgery

The day after John's distinctly searing punishment Sherlock found his mind straying from the experiments spread out on his table to John. It took him twelve full hours to realize Mycroft's invitation was not a diversion but a distraction. He spent nights waking to a hooded man's face, to closely cropped blond hair and leather gloves about his neck. He was just as worse off as he had been before, bored and desperate. 

 

Sherlock scrapped the delicate glass slide and tried to focus the microscope onto it but found himself thinking back to last night and his punishment. John had been magnificent, really, and Sherlock was sure he'd be a highly regarded and sought after partner. 

 

He was alone in the kitchen and thought he could hear Mrs. Hudson shuffling around downstairs and the customers at the shop next door. Other than that all was silent and still in the flat.

 

John's whisper in his ear, his closeness, his furrowed brow just before John stepped back to hurdle that crop at his naked back...

 

Suddenly he wondered just how many submissive partners John has had or if he was in one particular long term relationship. From what little he had deduced about the man so far this would be his best guess. Sherlock wondered what he looked like on the street-if he was dominant and dark like that in every day life and supposed he would really never know. 

 

Sherlock shivered and wiped his brow of the sweat that had accumulated there. Surely he could not deny himself John's attentions again...he must go to the next meet and he must ensure John became infuriated and disrespected. He must.

 

He pushed the microscope roughly across the table and knocked down a glass vial to the floor, barely blinking as it shattered to the floor. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair thinking that perhaps Mycroft's observation was wrong--perhaps the last thing he needed was another obsession. Cases and science generally took up the greater portion of his time, anyway.

 

His hands clenched together on the dirty, burned, tabletop. Yes, that's it...damn Mycroft and his plan and damn John for his heavy hand. Sherlock needed neither of the them to keep his sanity!

 

Sherlock stood, abruptly making his way to the bathroom and flicked the light switch on. Light flooded the small room as his long fingers reached for the tube of antibiotic cream in the cabinet. He had a slight blush to his cheeks that he attributed solely to unrelenting thoughts of John. John and his whip... John and his hands and that low, growling voice in his ear...

 

His silk shirt was unbuttoned quickly as he shook his head from side to side like an eraser clearing a chalkboard. No, no, no those thoughts would not do.

 

Turning, he eyed the remnants of the night before peppering his back in the dirty mirror. Most were small, raised, pink little bumps in the skin that burned whenever he moved but one was still actively bleeding. The redness trailed down to his lower back from a laceration just above that had opened perhaps in the night. Funny, he hadn't noticed it before.

 

He heard a small gasp from the door and cursed himself that he'd left himself so distracted and once again blamed it on John. Mrs. Hudson stood holding a small package in front of her like a shield, "Oh Sherlock! What have you done to yourself now?" She clucked her tongue in disapproval like elderly people do and said, "Never you mind, I'd rather not know. Now you get yourself dressed up and I'm going downstairs to ring the surgery...see if they'll get you in tonight." 

 

He opened his mouth to protest but she was already off, muttering to herself about closing times and deadly infections. He regarded it again in the mirror and decided that he did in fact need stitches.

 

***

 

When Sherlock left the flat after Mrs. Hudson spoke to the secretary about his maybe needing a stitch or two he'd been instructed to go straight there as they closed in twenty minutes. 

 

The surgery was a small little thing with no more than five to six staffing it and Sherlock, after walking through an empty waiting room, was rushed right to an examination room. The nurse told him to strip from the waist up and wait for the doctor who'd be in shortly. He would not relish the questioning look from the doctor when he saw he was so obviously whipped.

 

He sat shirtless on top of the black examination table and waited. A suture cart was rolled right next to it with stainless steel bowls and jugs of sterile water on top.  
Sherlock had waited only minutes before the door re-opened and a man walked in. He didn't look like a doctor with a rumpled old jumper and well worn slacks. Sherlock's eyes travelled up the muscular body to the black stethoscope slung haphazardly about his shoulders and up to his face.

 

John.

 

John's eyes widened in recognition as he turned from the door-obviously hesitating at seeing Sherlock sitting shirtless in his office. There was no mistaking those eyes and that shock of blond hair.

 

Sherlock clamped his eyes shut and willed John's figure away through sheer force of will. When he opened them John stood, still as a statue, as if frozen in place in front of the door. He looked so... ordinary. Suddenly, the smell of antiseptic and surprise was too much and Sherlock felt a hot sensation take hold of his entire body and he teetered on the edge of the gurney. 

 

John...

 

Immediately John reacted, sprinting to his side and forcing his head between his knees coaching, "Breathe, Sherlock, breathe...yes, with me," and Sherlock's head was spinning. He wasn't ashamed of seeing John or of what they had done together, or rather, what John had done to him...but he was, just now, ashamed of his reaction. 

 

John's heavy hand lay on a shoulder as Sherlock followed John's voice saying, "Inhale...exhale...," over and over until Sherlock covered his face with arms that were resting on shaking knees.

 

Sherlock shook off his hand and John backed away, palms towards him in acquiescence. 

 

John looked at him questioningly, "How did you find me? I thought all records were kept confidential..."

 

As if Sherlock would honestly go meandering about London looking for the man, really. 

 

He let sarcasm seep into his voice as he said, "Yes, well...I hadn't realized it was a crime to visit a doctor's office when you're injured." 

 

He half slid off the table to leave but was stopped by John's quick, "No...please stay. I hadn't meant to make you feel unwanted." His voice sounded sincere but Sherlock was still angered by his comment. 

 

"The nurse mentioned a laceration, yes? Well, let's see it then."

 

Sherlock refused to comment and let John encircle the table, taking in the red marks on his back. He heard the sound of John sliding on medical gloves as he murmured, "I didn't think I hit you that hard last night."

 

"Somehow I sincerely doubt you care, John, seeing as how you do what you do. Seems like a past time one would need a bit of sadism for."

 

He could feel John still behind him and already wished he could take the words back. 

 

"Lay face down on the table," John's voice was thick and low and Sherlock felt no other impulse but to comply. He rested his head on his folded arms while John readied equipment.

 

"Don't you have nurses for that?"

 

Sherlock could just see John's blond head shake out of the corner of his eye, "Sent them home because they tend to get grumpy if they stay late at night."

 

"Ah."

 

So he was alone with John for the first time and he'd already managed to anger him. Fancy that. Sherlock knew John could do whatever he wanted just now and nothing could be done to stop him. 

 

Sherlock felt cool water hit his back and John's strong fingers working to clean out the very wound he'd inflicted. Really, it was a tiny laceration and nothing to get worked up about.

 

"Seven."

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"It will take seven sutures to close it properly. You have an allergy to Lidocaine of course? We will have to forego the topical anaesthetic this time. Sorry about that."

 

Sherlock shook his head, appalled as John chose a suture size that looked large, much too large for his tiny wound. 

 

"Are you sure it will take seven...it didn't...oh." Understanding hit Sherlock just as John was about to begin and he spat out, "You don't play by the rules, do you?"

 

"Almost never actually...but you know you can speak one word and I'll stop. The same rule applies everywhere."

 

And wuss out in front of John one more time today? Sherlock would hardly let that happen. Instead, he gritted his teeth as he felt the first sharp poke through the sensitive skin on his back. 

 

"Remember that you wanted this...you came here Sherlock, to see me, here, for this," he punctuated this by pulling the thick thread through the skin abruptly but smoothly and Sherlock could feel a heat in his face, a desperation in his chest. 

 

He moaned into his arms as the needle pierced again and John leaned down to whisper in his ear, "I'm scared I'll lose count, Sherlock, count them for me please."

 

Sherlock felt it wasn't a request so he stuttered out a low, "Three," as it when in. The pressure was almost worse than the penetration. John's left hand periodically stroked his back, tracing the other, more shallow welts, and held him down with a heavy hand on his upper back when it became too much for Sherlock. They did this over and over as Sherlock counted and John threaded until it was finally a hushed, "Seven," and John snipped the end of the thread and knotted it.

 

Without saying another word John left the mess and as Sherlock sat up John said, "See yourself out," and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him and Sherlock took a much needed moment to himself before buttoning up his shirt, slipped on his jacket and scarf and followed him out. 

 

Sherlock walked down the hall to the main door and was half way to freedom before making the mistake and glancing back inside the surgery.

 

John sat at the abandoned receptionist's desk down the hall finishing up charts from the day, and, without looking up at him, commanded, "Come back in six days and I'll take those out for you."

 

Sherlock's body shivered in delight at the thought.


	5. An Order Ignored

One long, drawn out week later, Sherlock still found himself caseless and bored and craving the activities of the Gentleman's club. Thursday morning he popped into an anonymous surgery for the attending physician to quickly remove the sutures John had placed quite dramatically six days before. The doctor frowned at the numerous stitches required to close such a tiny laceration but Sherlock hadn't bothered to comment on it.

 

Back at the flat, he paced the floors awaiting seven o'clock and his chance to see John. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he might receive some of that skilled dominance from him at the party. He had no doubt there would be other capable young men at the club tonight but he wanted John.

 

There was a knock on the front door and Sherlock, as always, ignored it in favour of sitting down in his armchair and pulling his long legs up to his chest. He listened intently to Mrs. Hudson making small talk with whomever was at the door, the click of it when it shut, and her small feet climbing the short staircase to his flat. 

 

A soft knock and she entered the room carrying a tiny box in her hands.

 

"Sherlock, another package for you...the courier says it's from your brother." She placed it gently on the arm of the chair and took in his sullen look. 

 

He folded his arms across his chest, watching the dust settle in the fading light from the window facing the street. 

 

"Hmm, I don't want it then."

 

Mrs. Hudson smiled, "The courier said you'd say that and if you did I was to inform you it was an order."

 

Sherlock scoffed, "An order?"

 

"Yes, an order, dear." She said quietly and backed quickly out of the room, shutting the door behind her. 

 

Sherlock stared at the box for a full hour before he opened it--slicing the delicate string that tied the lid onto the box, flipping it open and pulling out the small folded note that read: 

 

_Sherlock,_

_Tonight is the annual masquerade and you are required as a submissive to wear this white mask for the entire duration. Do not take it off, and for God's sake, do not speak to John._

_Mycroft Holmes_

 

After Sherlock's last encounter with John, he was not ready to be physically punished in front of fifty or sixty people again, at least so soon.

 

As Sherlock readied himself for the night he found himself standing in front of the mirror, turning the mask over and over in his hands. 

 

Absently he wondered if John would be angry his order had been ignored--he had been directed to return to him for suture removal. Sherlock was unsure if he was required to follow orders from John at all if they were outside the secrecy of the club. He recalled Mike saying he didn't have to do anything he wasn't ready for. 

 

Well, Sherlock wasn't ready to see John again quite so soon, hell, he wasn't sure he was ready to see the copper tonight, either. Sherlock was torn between wanting John's hands on his body and a severe desire never to see him again. He was determined to ignore the doctor's very presence at the club. 

 

Sherlock tugged the mask into place, the white of it covered the skin just above his eyes and down to the tip of his nose and cheekbones. 

 

He glanced at the clock and determined he must hail a taxi now or be late. 

 

***

 

Sherlock waited a few moments in the line before coming face to face with Anthea and her wretched clipboard again. Her white mask glittered with what Sherlock was sure were diamonds and a line of deep red ruby's making up her House Slave mark instead of cheap face paint. 

 

She smiled as she checked him off the list and he found himself glancing behind her at the coppers guarding the door. Neither were John.

 

Anthea shook her head as if she knew what, or whom, he was looking for.

 

"Play by the rules tonight, Sherlock, we wouldn't want a repeat of last week, now would we?"

 

Sherlock cocked his head in her direction and said quickly, "Well, I don't know Anthea...I for one had a lot of fun with John," he turned to go but a thick hand grasped his arm, stopping him. 

 

Anthea held up a delicate hand to the copper and said fervently to Sherlock, "Don't call him that, don't even speak to him or about him. If you do, he will hear about it and you will be punished."

 

Sherlock silently shook off the coppers hand and pushed his way into the club.  
It was a repeat of the same darkened room where he was relieved of his coat and scarf but taken through a side door instead of gently pushed through the main corridor. This narrow hall must be the way submissives were taken before they were paraded into the hall together. He'd missed this part while signing papers last time.

 

They stood in relative silence for all of ten minutes, just enough time for Sherlock to become bored, until the doors were opened and they were led into the grand room.

 

They mingled through the crowd and Sherlock found his eyes wandering about the room, searching for a specific copper standing in the shadows. Could John see him? Was he watching him right now?

 

The thought riled his blood.

 

The room was still dimly lit and Sherlock leaned against the wall watching the activities going on around him with disinterest until Mike clambered over.

 

"Ah ha, Sherlock! Anyone catch your fancy yet then? Never mind, someone will...I assure you. There are many a dom here tonight and you're quite the attractive young man." He patted Sherlock on the shoulder. 

 

From the smell of him Mike had already had a few too many glasses of wine. Add a rumpled shirt and his silver mask askew on his face and he looked quite the sight. 

 

However, Sherlock found it was impossible not to like this man. He made everyone feel included in the evening and then again, he supposed it was Mike's job. 

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "Yes well, could I ask you a question?" 

 

Mike smiled and said, "Anything you want!"

 

"Your coppers, are they allowed to participate at all in these activities?" Sherlock waved his hand at the closest couple, a woman lain over a man's knee shrieking every time he smacked her bottom. 

 

"Oh, well, when they are on duty they are certainly not allowed to touch anyone except to inflict a punishment and all punishments must go through me. So the answer to your question is no."

 

Sherlock thought for a moment, "And if they were not on duty."

 

"They would have to quit their job really, I can't have coppers getting jealous every time someone screwed their favourite slave," Mike gave him a questioning look, "Why do you ask?"

 

Sherlock pursed his lips together, took a deep breath and said, "I'd rather not get into trouble for asking."

 

"I promise you will not."

 

Sherlock nodded and said, "My experience last week with John..." he stopped and looked at Mike for approval and continued when he nodded, "I keep going back there, keep thinking about being on my knees in front of him and his damned riding crop and it's the only thing that makes me..."

 

Mike finished it for him, "Hungry?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock said, "hungry for more. John is an enigma-he is a retired serviceman who works as a doctor in a surgery...did you know that? Yes, but what would make him work here? He is a puzzle that I want so desperately to solve."

 

"Forget about it."

 

Sherlock backtracked their conversation in his mind. Had he gone too far? Said too much? He remembered Anthea's warning too late. 

 

Mike shook his head and explained as the party went on without them, "John gets his kicks without hurting anyone I suspect. Besides, I'm sure he has many other subs outside this club. It would take a damned willing sub to keep up with the likes of John Watson. His hard limits list matches yours, you know. It's too bad really."

 

Sherlock slumped back against the wall as he watched Mike retreat to the party. 

 

He was in a right foul mood now and contemplated going home until a young man in a dark suit and silver mask approached him, and, holding out a hand to introduce himself said in a sultry voice, "Jim Moriarty. Fancy a go?"

 

Sherlock paused, then nodded, and pulled himself away from the wall to follow Moriarty into a private room. If he couldn't have John he'd have to settle for someone else. Perhaps this Moriarty fellow could give him the relief he so desperately needed.


	6. A Villain

Ten minutes in and Sherlock knew he made a grave mistake. Moriarty had kicked the door shut for privacy reasons, he'd explained, and set about disrobing Sherlock completely and tying his hands to a cold stone tabletop. Sherlock felt more exposed now than he had during his punishment in front of a crowd of strangers. 

 

Moriarty said he had to duck out for moment and that he would be right back.

 

The door slammed behind him and Sherlock stood, bent at the waist, the cold seeping into his chest and abdomen when it touched the grey slab. It reminded him of the tables at the morgue. It was smooth and cold and completely unpleasant. 

 

Moriarty popped back into the room with a smile curving his thin lips upward. He approached Sherlock and laid a cold hand on his backside.

 

"I'm so sorry about that," he said breathlessly, "Let's get down to it, shall we?"

 

Sherlock's arms were stretched out in front of him, his biceps straining with the pressure. The two leather straps that held him there were sturdy and Moriarty had pulled them expertly over Sherlock's thin wrists and pulled them more tightly than he would have liked.

 

He tested them, and found they had absolutely no give and pulling only made them tighter. 

 

Moriarty tossed something down on the table beside Sherlock's head and grasped the back of his neck, forcing him to look at it.

 

"You see this, Sherlock? This is a cat o' nine tails," he flicked it once or twice in the air, "It was used to torture people, you know."

 

Moriarty let go of his neck with a quick jolt and Sherlock eyed the table in front of him, losing sight of Moriarty behind him. 

 

The first strike was sudden and hard and he immediately felt little pockets of his skin sear as if on fire. It was a huge leap up from a riding crop and Sherlock immediately wanted it to stop.

 

"You know your brother is very influential in this town, very powerful," Moriarty circled the table but Sherlock refused to look at him, "In all honesty, I completely detest Mycroft Holmes."

 

Sherlock cried out in pain as Moriarty accentuated the words Mycroft and Holmes with two hits to his lower back. He realized too late that this wasn't play, this was revenge. 

 

"I'm going to beat you until you bleed, Sherlock, and then I'm going to fuck you."

 

Moriarty's laugh echoed in the small room as Sherlock panicked, he twisted this way and that, trying but unable to escape his bonds. 

 

Sherlock sputtered out through parched lips, "Red...red..," over and over but Moriarty just laughed some more. 

 

Sherlock could see the whip pull back again and he yelled as loudly as he could, "John!" and seconds later the door to the private room was thrown open, striking the wall hard.

 

John leapt forward and grasped Moriarty's right arm and locked one gloved hand around his neck. He tossed him out of the room and into the arms of oncoming coppers. There was yelling, and bit of a tussle, but soon Moriarty was gone.

 

Sherlock shook a little on the table as John shut the door again and they were alone. 

 

John walked up to the front of the table where Sherlock could see him and John's arms were outstretched as if to calm him. 

 

"I only shut the door for your privacy," John's eyes were so full of concern for him and Sherlock felt sick to his stomach about it. He was calming him like one would a scared animal.

 

"I'm going to take a knife from my pocket and cut these off, is that okay?"

 

Sherlock nodded. 

 

John did so, and moved to the side of the table to help him stand upright. 

 

"May I?," John asked, pointing to his back. 

 

Sherlock nodded again and John whisked strong, gloved fingers over his back, prodding for fractures or lacerations.

 

When he was satisfied he said, "Just minor skin wounds, nothing that needs my attention."

 

He motioned for Sherlock to get dressed and then to sit in the armchair in the corner. 

 

"Do you need a minute?"

 

Sherlock shrugged.

 

"Well, take one. Moriarty is a scumbag--the worst of his kind. If only I'd been watching you more intently I could have stopped this..." John shook his head as if angry at himself.

 

Sherlock sat in the armchair with his hands clasped in front of him, rubbing at chaffed wrists watching the other warily. John's arms were crossed as he leaned against the table, his black military uniform obscuring the lower part of his face. Sherlock pulled off his own forgotten mask.

 

"Let me." 

 

John knelt in front of him and took both gloves off, abandoning them on the floor. He massaged first one wrist and then the other. 

 

"Just forget about him, Sherlock, it's over and I'm here. I'll always be here when you need me." Sherlock hadn't noticed his hands were shaking.

 

When would John learn that he needed him always? After only knowing him for a week Sherlock had felt the most exposed and the most comforted he had in his life, all because of this man.

 

After the good part of an hour passed, John grasped his arm and led him from the room--the main room was empty and only custodial staff remained. It must be later than Sherlock realized. 

 

All in all, he really was fine. His back only smarted a little bit from the whip but it was his pride that had really taken a hit. 

 

He was thankful for John, for his quick response and for him remaining behind afterwards. If only he could say these things to him he would. These rules were so very frustrating.

 

As John escorted him out, Sherlock located his coat and scarf in the entryway and pulled them on. John opened the door to the street and said with quiet certainty, "You will be okay, Sherlock."

 

And Sherlock also knew he would and as he stepped outside the club and onto the curb he knew he would never be back. 

 

The problem was, how was he to get John to come to him? 

 

The solution came to him as quickly as the culprit's name in a murder case. 

 

He whirled around in a great show of coat ends and arms and told John who still remained just inside the door, "You have no power out here, am I right?"

 

John's eyes narrowed and Sherlock took it as a yes. If he had the rights to punish what happens outside the club Sherlock was sure John would be on him just for speaking to him.

 

Sherlock's jaw clamped down tight as he fought to control himself. Certain words needed to be said if he was to get John upset enough to come to him. 

 

Sherlock went for overkill and used what worked last time John punished him saying, "John, John, John," over and over until John's hands were grasping the door frame hard. Sherlock could tell John was reluctant to come outside and finished with a low, "John, if you would like to punish me the address is 221b Baker Street."

 

He walked away, projecting an outward calm he most certainly did not feel inside, and Sherlock jumped when the door slammed closed behind him.

 

Sherlock hoped so very fervently that he would come.


	7. A Question

Anticipation. That's what Sherlock felt whilst pacing the flat waiting for a knock at the door. He wasn't having doubts per say; he knew he wanted John's expert hands on him, in him. It was how Sherlock had provoked him into doing it that plagued his mind. Perhaps John would turn out to be like Moriarty when he got him alone. It's not like John hadn't proved that he didn't obey most of the rules--Sherlock's time at the surgery laying face down on the stretcher with John's left hand holding him there showed that.

 

Perhaps provoking him was too rash but Sherlock had been left with no other option. After Moriarty he had zero interest in returning to the club so John must come to him. 

 

Sherlock had almost asked Mycroft to look him up but realized Mycroft probably already had the moment he'd realized Sherlock was attracted to John in the first place. Big brother always was looking out for his safety even if he meddled in Sherlock's affairs a bit too often. Besides, Mycroft had left Sherlock in John's care after the Moriarty fiasco so he must trust him to some extent. 

 

But would he come?

 

Sherlock felt a squeeze in his chest and for a moment found he could not catch his breath. If John didn't come Sherlock was sure he'd be left bereft and bored sitting on the cold floor of the living room holding the Union Jack pillow. He contemplated playing the violin but opted instead to sit on the couch in silence so he could hear a knock at the door. 

 

***

 

Two long, drawn out hours later Sherlock sat curled up on the floor hugging the pillow and absolutely refusing to go to his bedroom when he heard a soft knock at the front door. He uncurled himself and strode to the door to his flat and peeked his head just over the side, just enough to see the main door from that angle. 

 

His heart hammered in his chest as he listened to a more sturdy knock and the subsequent ruffling of Mrs. Hudson rushing to the door. He saw her white robe and matching slippers and listened to her muttering. "Now, who might that be?"

 

Sherlock's mind ran through the possibilities; it could be Mycroft who has come to check up on him or Lestrade with a case. Or, more likely it was Dr. John Watson come to beat the attitude out of him. 

 

She unlocked the latch and opened the door just enough to peek out and yelled up the stairs, "Sherlock...I believe we've a robber!" The tiny lady shut the door and Sherlock could just hear a faint, "Oh no ma'am I--," 

 

It was John's voice and Sherlock wanted for just a split second to let her think he was a robber to ensure he left. But no, he just couldn't do that.

 

With a hoarse voice Sherlock called down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson, "No it's quite alright...he was expected."

 

She shook her head and said, "Really? At this late hour, Sherlock, do you think that was necessary?" but she opened the door and apologised to John who refused to come inside.

 

Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs dressed in the same clothes as the club minus the ridiculous masquerade attire and John stood just outside the threshold, Mrs. Hudson serving as a barrier between them. He was still dressed all in black but his face was bare, uncovered. Just the way Sherlock liked it.

 

When he spoke his voice was low but polite, no trace of anger left in it, "Aren't you going to introduce us, Sherlock?" 

 

Oh yes, that was the social norm. Sherlock stretched one hand to first his landlady and then his, whatever John was to him, and said, "Mrs. Hudson meet Dr. John Watson."

 

"Oh a doctor!," she gushed, "Medical yes? Not one of those silly fellows with the degrees that fancy calling themselves as such? Do come in."

 

John smiled at her and replied, "Yes, a medical doctor and no, that will not be necessary as I will not be staying."

 

Sherlock's eyes met his in surprise, "What? Why not?"

 

John straightened his back and clasped his hands behind his back and answered, "Because we are going out for a cuppa."

 

Mrs. Hudson looked back and forth at them and proclaimed, "Tea? At this late hour? Sherlock, that just can't be healthy!"

 

Sherlock scuffed his shoe on the first step and thought quickly about refusing to go but changed his mind just as fast and grabbed his coat and scarf from the flat before dismounting the stairs . As he stepped over the threshold he called back over his shoulder, "Don't wait up, Mrs. Hudson," and followed John down the darkened street. 

 

***

 

They sat at a nearly empty coffee house a few blocks from Sherlock's flat and near John's surgery. The walk had been very quick and except for some polite small talk on John's part was also very silent. 

 

Now here they sat, heads bent together over two steaming cups of tea, in silence. It was completely the opposite as to how Sherlock expected it to go. He had expected harsh words and direct punishment like he'd received before. 

 

Sherlock couldn't stay quiet any longer, "John..."

 

John snapped, "I never said you could call me that."

 

"Uh, what would you like me to call you?"

 

John took a sip of his tea and said, "Nothing, you haven't earned the right to call me by my given name and I haven't earned the right to have you call me sir."

 

Sherlock zeroed in on that, "Is that what you like? Being called sir?" If it was Sherlock had no qualms in calling John sir, none whatsoever. 

 

John shook his head, exasperated, and said, "Look, I have a few things to say okay? First off, I apologise at my behaviour at the surgery as it was unprofessional and went against everything I am supposed to be as a doctor. I forced you into a medical procedure you probably didn't need and did so without anaesthetic which was highly careless of me."

 

Sherlock watched John's face as he spoke. He looked truly sorry, his brow was furrowed and he stared into his cup as he apologised. His black outfit really did make him look like a common criminal in public.

 

"I loved every moment of it. Sir."

 

John shook his head and said, "Don't call me that. You don't even know me."

 

"Actually," Sherlock began, "I know you are a retired army doctor recently returned injured from Afghanistan, maybe Iraq but more likely Afghanistan, who works short hours at a local surgery for money. I know your slight limp is likely psychosomatic as I saw no trace of it at the club but did on the walk here. But what I don't know is why you work at the Gentleman's club rather than attend the parties. As a doctor I'm sure you could get an invitation..." 

 

He stopped when John's mouth hung open in surprise and then watched a small smile set on his lips. 

 

"Has Mike been talking to you?"

 

"Not about your personal history, I can tell just by looking at you."

 

"Really? That's brilliant." John shook his head, astonished at what Sherlock had deduced. It made pride swell up in Sherlock's chest like it did when he solved a particularly difficult case.

 

"But what I don't know," Sherlock pushed his cup to the side, "is why you waited two whole hours to come to me tonight."

 

"Oh, that," John shook his head, "Well, I was on my way but your brother had other plans for me. Thought I was being kidnapped for the longest time, until I saw Anthea."

 

"You've been with Mycroft for two hours?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

 

"No, he just threatened me to within an inch of my life if I hurt you in any way you didn't want me to. Odd fellow...when I was leaving he thanked me over and over again for dealing with the Moriarty situation."

 

Sherlock chuckled, "Yes, that would be my brother. Have you been completely scared off me then?"

 

John took another sip and thought about it, the moments stretching until Sherlock was afraid of the answer.

 

"No, I'm here now, aren't I?"

 

"Yes, you are."

 

The waitress came for their dishes and Sherlock cleared his throat and awkwardly asked, "Will you be coming back with me then?"

 

John stood and said, "No. If we are to do this, Sherlock, it must be on my rules alone. If you are in it just for a quick play then I am not your man, do you understand? There is a reason I don't take on submissives...I need control all day, every day. I can't just turn it on and off which is why I don't go to the club. If I tell you to go to your knees in this shop I need you to do that because it can't just be something that happens one night a week at the club."

 

Sherlock sat numbly at the table with John speaking down to him as if he were a child.

 

John threw enough change on the table to cover both of their drinks and walked away saying, "You think about that and text me if you think you can live with it. Mycroft already has my number, I'm sure."

 

He left Sherlock sitting at the table in a quiet cafe in the middle of the night feeling completely chastised. Yes, he wanted John but he wasn't sure he could completely give up his freedom like that. What if they were in the middle of the street and Sherlock said something that ticked John off? Logically speaking John could make him kneel in the street for hours just on his say so. 

 

Did he want that?

 

Sherlock suddenly wasn't so sure.


	8. An Agreement

Sherlock mulled over John's proposal for three days before finally breaking down and texting Mycroft, asking for John's number. When he had it in his possession he memorized it and immediately texted John before his courage to do so ran out. It was a Sunday morning but he couldn't be sure that John wasn't working at the surgery--those places did tend to be open on weekends. He typed the message out on his keypad and pressed send regardless, hoping to get a response. 

 

_10:13AM John, I think we can come to an agreement. SH_

 

Moments later the beep alerted him to a message.

 

_10:14AM Are you certain? I refuse to keep an unruly sub, Sherlock. Perhaps you should find another more pliable, more suitable, to your needs._

 

Sherlock held his breath. He didn't want pliable, he didn't want suitable. He wanted John. He has calculated the risks and the embarrassments down to the last possibility and found his desire for John and what John could give him outweighed those risks. However, Sherlock was an intelligent man who was used to getting his way both at work and at home so he believed he could set about some rules in his favour.

 

Frantically, he typed:

 

_10:16AM No! I am fairly certain, yes. Could we meet to discuss the terms of my surrender? SH_

 

He cursed himself immediately after sending it. Somehow he felt the comedic relief would be missed here.

 

_10:17AM Yes, at the same cafe say 1800 tonight? Bring a white flag._

 

Sherlock smiled. Perhaps John wasn't such a stick in the mud after all. He responded in kind.

 

_10:18AM: I will be there, sir. SH_

 

_10:18AM: That's enough of that, Sherlock. Until I give you permission to call me anything just refer to me as Dr. Watson._

 

Sherlock stood up from his seat on the couch and immediately sat down at his kitchen table. Calling John by such a formal title sounded tedious but if he required it Sherlock could manage. His nerves were strung tight like a high wire and he felt a sudden urge to do science. The experiments had been long neglected as he had run out of cases to solve but he was sure some new information could come out of the fermenting experiments on the table. He needed something to keep his mind off of John, off the fear of submitting both physically and mentally to him. Because, to be honest, that is exactly what John was asking for...what he was demanding Sherlock do.

 

BEEP.

 

Sherlock picked up his phone.

 

_10:25AM: Oh, and Sherlock, don't be late._

 

He ignored how his fingers shook as he pulled vials and slides towards him from across the table.

 

***

 

Mrs. Hudson was puttering about Sherlock's flat while he was engrossed in the after affects of toxins on dead flesh at the table. He'd been at this for the greater part of the afternoon, writing down findings in his journals as the results were finalized, and now he was getting bored again.

 

"Sherlock, this place is a mess! I'm not your housekeeper dear...please do keep up," Mrs. Hudson's shrill little voice complained. 

 

He grunted a response which is more than he gave other people when they interrupted his work. She shook her head and grabbed a garbage can and tidied up the living room of mess like she always did even after proclaiming she wasn't his housekeeper. She made her way over to the window and pulled the curtain back, letting in some sunlight into the dingy flat.

 

"There's a police car out front, Sherlock! Oh it's Inspector Lestrade come to bring you a case, I suspect...what a handsome man he is," She was leaning forward trying to catch a glimpse of the man.

 

"A case?", Sherlock's veins were instantly filled anticipation and adrenaline as he jumped up from the table. He'd been waiting for this for over a month!

 

He met Lestrade at the door to his flat after the inspector took the stairs two at a time and Sherlock listened very intently to what he had to say.

 

Lestrade began, breathlessly, describing the scene, "We've got a woman killed with an axe in her suburb home sometime this afternoon. She's from a rich family, Anderson thinks it's a break in gone wrong of course, but I'd value your opinion on the matter."

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Anderson is an idiot. I must see the scene, Lestrade! Take me there. Now."

 

"Yes, come along then, we can take the cruiser. Now, I have to warn you, I can only give you five minutes with the body. Family are already asking about removal and autopsy."

 

Sherlock nodded and grabbed his scarf and coat and absently shoved his cellular in a trouser pocket before following the inspector down the stairs. He was ecstatic, elated even. This is what he lived for.

 

They pulled away from the curb where Mrs. Hudson stood waving a goodbye. She was happy to see Sherlock was back in his element again.

 

***

 

Two hours later John Watson sat alone at the cafe sipping tea and staring at his phone.

 

He waited thirty minutes before texting Sherlock, angrily punching the keys with his fingers. He should have known the man would bail. He was too new to the scene, too passionate about John much too quickly, and John cursed himself for expecting anything more than that to begin with.

 

He pressed send and left the cafe with a cane in his right hand and a distinct limp slowing him down.

 

***

 

"Good day, Anderson, I trust you've muddled up the crime scene by now?" Sherlock started in on the man he loved to hate the moment he'd stepped out of the cruiser. Donovan, baring those vampire-like teeth of hers, stood with her arms crossed in front of the police taped entrance way to the home.

 

"Oye, freak, I wouldn't put it past you to be bored enough to put her in that storage closet yourself. How long has it been since you got your last kick? A month...maybe even two?"

 

He back tracked to her in a flourish of coat tails and replied, "I wouldn't put it past me, either," with a dangerous gleam in his eye. He was lying of course, Sherlock had never hurt anyone and certainly never would, but she didn't know that. The door was wide open and Sherlock's brain was moving a mile a minute, as if supercharged on the adrenalin of the moment. It had been much too long between Sherlock's cases and he drank in the energy that was almost kinetic in the way the crime scene was moving. 

 

Forensic tech's moved about, in and out and back and forth, from the home and family were sequestered off in a private area in the back. Long corridors with deep wooden baseboards and a crystal chandelier in the dining room screamed old money and Sherlock's eyes flitted this way and that as he followed Lestrade.

 

Lestrade said quickly over his left shoulder, "Remember, I can only give you five minutes with the body, just like any other time. I've got the superintendent breathing down my neck on this one.

 

Sherlock nodded his head and darted down the hall--noting and pointing out small drops of blood on the ground where the murderer had likely backtracked out the front door after the murder.

 

"No signs of a break in, I see," Sherlock said as he ran an bare hand down the white painted wall to the storage closet.

 

"No, you're right, we've found nothing at all that indicates a robbery."

 

Sherlock chuckled and teased, "Anderson's a twit. You should get yourself a new forensic pathologist," of course this was babble he'd been spouting for months and that Lestrade consistently chose to ignore.

 

"Please, Sherlock, the body..."

 

"Ah yes," Sherlock peeked into the closet and saw the woman's fully clothed body on the floor, crumpled up in the corner of the closet, a bloody skull fracture that had oozed grey matter and blood. Some rags soaked up blood remnants from the floor that was likely from a quick clean-up by the murderer.

 

"How did you know it was an axe? Was Anderson actually correct this time?"

 

"A police officer discovered a bloody axe abandoned down the road a ways, actually."

 

"Hmm, I must see this place as well."

 

He turned abruptly and motioned for Lestrade to show him where the murderer abandoned the murder weapon. As far as he was concerned he had deduced all that he possibly could while Anderson and Donovan made snide remarks concerning his sanity. Really though, Sherlock was a highly functioning sociopath, NOT a psychopath, so why couldn't they get that right?

 

The woman was wearing a dress one normally wouldn't be in on a Sunday afternoon unless she was going somewhere important. It was a sun dress, so Sherlock deduced it to be an outside function. The newspapers she read consistently left traces of black ink on otherwise clean fingers which led him to believe she was involved in horse races, if the folded up forgotten newspapers in the foyer meant anything. Add the golden charm bracelet around her left wrist with different styled horses and viola, case was solved.

 

Less than one hundred meters down the freshly paved road the axe lay almost buried in dirt and bits of broken pavement.

 

Finally, he was ready. He turned to the inspector and explained, "Your victim was a horse race addict who likely pissed off someone at the local racetrack. I know this because of the newspaper ink and charm bracelets and the straw hat she was nearly sitting on in the closet. She'd been on her way to the race today, and if you check the results, you will find that whomever bid on the winning horse will have shown up late to the teller and bought his ticket almost before closing time. He would have looked rushed and nervous, having just committed a grisly murder moments before."

 

"He? How do you know the murderer was a he?" Lestrade was following Sherlock but only just, having no idea how he came to all these conclusions.

 

"Actually, I need to run some more tests. A male is more likely statistically speaking to use an axe and race fans are also statistically male but the victim being female leads be to believe the murderer could also be female. Check out the video surveillance tapes at the track first."

 

Sherlock made to leave and Lestrade felt compelled to ask, "And what will you be doing?"

 

"I've got some experiments to do at Saint Bart's. Don't worry Lestrade...give me until the morning and you'll have your proof."

 

With that he walked with long strides to the main street and hailed a taxi with only one thing on his mind.

 

***

 

Sherlock met Molly at Saint Bart's and they were mid-way through trying to re-enact the murder weapon on a dead corpse no one had claimed and was to be cremated soon. 

 

He'd fought with Anderson about the case, about how the woman's body was found in the storage closet all bloodied, and Anderson still thought it'd been a break in gone wrong. Ridiculous, no would-be robber would have an axe at hand and then take the time to stuff her body in a closet. No, this was premeditated murder. Someone had brought the axe to the home with the sole purpose of killing her for her compulsive gambling habits. Perhaps she'd made a bet she couldn't afford? Or perhaps she cheated at the racetrack. Sherlock made it his goal to find out.

 

He lifted the axe he made Molly buy him at the local hardware store and, covered in plastic and a face shield, meant to slice into the corpse's skull in one blow. Then, he would have Molly do so as well on the opposite side. The purpose was to see if a smaller female with less upper body strength could inflict a blow so deep to the skull as the one on the victim's skull.

 

BEEP.

 

He paused mid-strike and huffed angrily, digging out his phone from his pocket. Flipping it open he read the text through the glare of the face shield and immediately regretted doing so.

 

_0635PM: Sacrifice, Humility, Compliance. That's all I asked of you, Sherlock Holmes. I told you I've no interest in taking on an unwilling, unbecoming submissive. Lose my number. Goodbye._

 

The axe slipped out of his grip and to the floor. With all of the excitement of the case he'd forgotten all about meeting John at the cafe to discuss their, well, their situation. From their previous meetings Sherlock was sure this was something unforgivable, something that insulted John well above the use of his given name ever could. Was this the end of it then? 

 

He backed away from the corpse on the stainless steel table in front of him, mouth open in shock.

 

Molly took off her face mask and approached him cautiously, "Sherlock...are you okay? You look a little pale? Was it bad news?"

 

"Yes, oh, what? No, not like that anyway," he cleared his throat, "I must go. Could we continue this in the morning then?"

 

Molly looked surprised when she said, "I've never known you to postpone an experiment for a case before...are you sure you're quite alright?"

 

Sherlock refused to answer and instead he chucked off his personal protective equipment and fled out the door, grabbing his coat along the way. His brain buzzed with the shear effort of thinking, of creating a way to fix this, to fix his stupid blunder. Really though, what kind of submissive stood up his dom on their first date? A damned terrible one.

 

A damned terrible one like Sherlock Holmes.

 

Shaking fingers found the keys he needed to text a simple text but one that he hoped reverently that John would accept.

 

_0638PM: I apologise, Dr. Watson, for not being there at the agreed upon time. Could we meet now? SH_

 

He waited in the dimming light from a cloudy, grey, sky for a few minutes, his cellular clutched so very tightly in his hands. Unfortunately he was met with nothing but silence from it.

 

He was desperate when he hailed a taxi in front of the hospital--had almost stepped out in front of one in his haste to go...where? Where could he go? John certainly wasn't at 221b Baker Street and Sherlock had no idea where he lived.

 

He threw himself into the back seat of the cab and exclaimed, "Mycroft, of course!"

 

The cabbie looked at him questioningly through the rear view mirror and asked, "Where, sir?"

 

"Uh, I'm not sure yet...just drive around the block until I get the address."

 

If anyone would know where John lived it would be Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was sure his brother had done thorough research on the man. His very happiness depended upon it right now.

 

He pulled out his phone as the cabbie did as he was told and he looked out the window at the darkening sky, waiting for Mycroft to answer the phone.

 

Three rings later and Mycroft's crisp and to the point voice answered, "Sherlock. What sort of trouble have you gotten into now?"

 

Sherlock blurted out his question before Mycroft could annoy him further.

 

"I need John Watson's address. Now."

 

"And what do you plan on doing with that information, little brother?"

 

Sherlock sighed into the phone, "Look, I need it. I've made a bit of a mistake and now John won't talk to me. He even told me to lose his number."

 

"Perhaps you should do as a good sub does and listen to him."

 

Sherlock felt like vice grips were squeezing his heart and twisting it in his chest. He felt breathless, and his voice hitched into the phone, much to his dismay and embarrassment.

 

Sherlock stopped just short of begging.

 

There was silence for a moment before Mycroft reluctantly complied, "He lives in a small hotel one block from his surgery, 287 Crawford Street, room number 103. I do hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock," but Sherlock had already hung up the phone and was barking directions to the taxi driver.


	9. An Apology

The street was bathed in darkness but for a small older styled lantern affixed to the right side of the door. A black sign marked the door as room 103 and Sherlock sat upon John's stoop under the small halo of light wrapped up tightly in his coat and scarf. He turned up his collar against the chill.

 

He'd been here for nearly two hours waiting for John to make his way home. He debated the chance that Mycroft had given him the wrong address and was now laughing at him from the ever moving CCTV cameras nearby. He'd even looked up at the closest one and mouthed the words: _don't meddle._

 

The street was fairly deserted and Sherlock was surprised the hotel manager hadn't called the police yet. He thought about how ridiculous this whole thing was. Who sat for hours in the cold waiting for someone? A desperate man, obviously, his mind reasoned. He tried to calm his mind but he felt just as empowered and fired up as if he were in the middle of a case. It was a mystery, really. The fact that he had no idea how John would react to finding Sherlock here was a complete and utter mystery Sherlock never really wanted to solve.

 

Sherlock covered his face with his long fingered hands and sighed. Perhaps John was gone off for the night, perhaps he'd found another sub to work with and was staying with them. Sherlock's heart sank. No, he couldn't think about that.

 

Sherlock stood up and stretched his lean muscles taking three long strides away from the door. He was furious with himself. These feelings were such a distraction, such a nuisance. He ought to be taking a corpse's skull apart with various attempts in a controlled study at Bart's. Instead he was wasting his time waiting for someone who may or may not show and even if John did show there was no guarantee he would even speak to Sherlock.

 

And could he blame him? For the short time Sherlock had known John he knew that the doctor hated to be disrespected.

 

Sherlock paced about in front of the concrete step, angry at himself for being so weak. He was better than this. He didn't need some man screwing up his normal crime solving life. Finally he turned and started off down the street for Bart's intending on texting Molly to meet him and they could begin where they'd left off.

 

He got as far as three steps before he heard a surprised voice behind him.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

Instantly he froze, petrified. Did this make him look too desperate, too needy? What if John laughed at him or dismissed him without a thought? What if he refused to accept his apology?

 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned around to face him. John was still further down the street and Sherlock stayed silent, wide eyes watching John's approach. The stone look on John's face wiped out all of his new found confidence and Sherlock found himself floundering, unsure of what he should do.

 

John was wearing an old weathered jumper and slacks, a black cane grasped in his right hand. His limp was quite pronounced as he made his way ever closer, his cane clacking on the sidewalk.

 

Sherlock had an almost overwhelming sense of foreboding when John stopped just short of the door to his room.

 

John frowned and that brow furrowed once again when he asked, "Well...what do you want?"

 

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, for my... being late," his voice was hoarse from being unused for the better part of two hours and Sherlock thought it made him sound ridiculous. He snapped his mouth shut but thought it was best to keep John happy so Sherlock had reverted back to his proper title.

 

John was quiet and Sherlock could see he was sizing him up...trying to figure out why he would be waiting outside his door so late at night and two scenarios went through Sherlock's mind. The first was that John would go inside and leave him not giving him the time of day. The second was that John would forgive him, invite him inside and punish him for being an inconsiderate ass. Suddenly, he wasn't sure which one he wanted.

 

Sherlock willed himself to be patient as John's eyes dragged up and down his body. He really hoped he looked as sorry as he felt and that desperation was not written all over his face.

 

After a few long and painful moments John grabbed the keys from his pocket and limped up the steps to his hotel room, his left arm shoving him out of the way. A confused and hurt look crossed Sherlock's face and he shook his head in anger. Did his apology mean nothing to John?

 

The key made a loud sound as the gear inside clicked unlocked and John opened it just a fraction. He paused for a moment but then continued through the doorway and Sherlock couldn't help the word that stumbled out of his mouth, and past his lips like it was torn from him as John moved to shut the door.

 

 _"John, wait!"_ The moment it was out John turned back towards him, a scowl upon his face.

 

Sherlock gasped in a quick breath and stammered, "Please...forgive me," he affixed his eyes to the ground and shook his head back and forth, cursing his ridiculous inability to cease screwing up.

 

Sherlock wasn't sure if that apology was for the incorrect use of his name or for missing their designated meeting time. Either way, he was in trouble but at least John was looking at him now, acknowledging him.

 

Sherlock refused to look up but he could feel John's gaze burning into him as John finally said angrily. "I think you know what I want to see, Sherlock."

 

And Sherlock did. He cursed himself again for sinking to his knees in the middle of the street. Regardless of his deeply rooted shame at not being able to ignore John his face was flushed red with pleasure. He didn't care. He only needed John to forgive him...to teach him how to be better.

 

Sherlock held his arms out beside him, shrugged his shoulders and begged, "Forgive me. Forgive me and teach me how to become better at this. Would you do that, for me? _Please?"_ He was aware of how small he felt, how inconsequential, kneeling on the sidewalk in front of another man awaiting rejection.

 

Sherlock looked up from the ground and eyed John through his lashes. Anger and...something else...played upon the man's face. He looked almost pleased.

 

John stepped aside and said warmly, "I will teach you anything you need to know but I need you to be here ready and willing to learn. I don't know why you missed our meeting but it will not happen again. Am I right?"

 

"Yes, Dr. Watson." Anything to get John's forgiveness. Relief flowed over Sherlock. Finally, he could have John. There were no coppers here, no rules or regulations. Just himself and John's expert hands.

 

John nodded beaconing him inside saying as Sherlock stepped over the threshold and into his hotel room, "I accept your apology but now I hope you can accept my punishment," and Sherlock shivered at the promise laced into those words.

 

He watched John walk across the tiny, bare room, and rustle through his bedside table. He pulled out the black leather gloves he wore every night to the club and tossed his cane to the floor, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper. The sight made Sherlock's mouth go dry. It was astonishing, really, how this seemingly ordinary man could make him so weak in the knees.

 

"Face down on the bed, Sherlock." John commanded with a content smile upon his face and Sherlock fought the urge to run.


	10. A Punishment

Sherlock lay face down with the wool of the fire blanket that covered the bed scratching the sensitive skin on his bare chest. He rested his head on his arm and regarded John with an anticipatory look over his shoulder. 

 

They were completely alone in the small darkened room and the silence between them was borderline awkward. How comfortable could you be laying stark naked on a bed with no idea as to what someone like John would, or could, do to you. He could do anything, Sherlock thought, suddenly nervous. 

 

Sherlock knew John was strong, had found that out the hard way with the riding crop, and again at the surgery when he'd been held down with one hand while John stitched him up sans topical anaesthetic.

 

Sherlock tried to deduce the method John would use to punish him but could find no objects in the room. John could, he supposed, use his cane but it still lay discarded on the floor. As far as he could tell, unless John kept things under his bed, the man had absolutely nothing to work with. 

 

He could feel John's eyes raking up and down his naked body and he felt a flush of embarrassment redden his cheeks and neck. He found it entirely tedious that John could invoke that reaction with something so simple.

 

He felt John's leather gloved hand at the base of his neck and John squeezed in reassurance as he spoke in a low whisper, "Easy, I'm not going to hurt you."

 

Sherlock scoffed at that because it didn't take a genius to deduce that John was lying. 

 

"I want you to trust me," John said softly, "I hope over the next few months I can earn that from you."

 

The hand made its way south over the curvature of his thoracic spine and down until it rested in the dip of his lower back and Sherlock shivered. A thought came to him through the haze of pleasure as John stroked his back.

 

"You spoke of rules. What are they?"

 

John's hand paused it's ministrations and he rested a hand on Sherlock's buttock as he asked, "Do you want to talk about this now? Would you rather we do this with rules in place? Regardless, you are getting that punishment." John's hand squeezed to add good measure to his words. 

 

"I'd rather have them now," Sherlock dismissed the ridiculous notion that he was, in fact, delaying his inevitable punishment. 

 

"Fine," John withdrew a little and sat on a tiny stool near the desk. "The rules are quite simple. You may begin calling me sir from now on but only if you are comfortable with it and I mean that...we must have trust Sherlock. You need to trust me with not only your body but your well-being also. From what was discussed when you signed up at the club you've never been with a dominant before so you are very new to all of this. I need you to tell me if I'm doing something you aren't comfortable with and, if you are willing, I would like you to wear my mark at the next night at the club. If you still want me to be your Dom I will quit my part time job there...it's not like I needed it anyway."

 

John's facial expression was tense. He so very much wanted Sherlock to get how important that was to him. Sherlock nodded even though he'd originally had no plans to return to the club before he could handle it if John required it of him. He listened as John continued, "Also, if you want to come you must ask first."

 

Sherlock stared at John from across the room with a look of shock on his face. As if that would be an option in the first place as it took quite a bit of stimulation for him to get hard and interested at all. 

 

"If you come without permission you are punished. If you lie to me, you are punished. If you are late," he tilted his head as he said this, "I will punish you. Obey the rules and we will not have a problem. Do you understand?"

 

Sherlock rasped out a quick, "Yes," before he stuttered out an apologetic, "Yes, sir," and John stood and crossed the room with two strides. 

 

His hand reached out and struck Sherlock's bottom with a smack and Sherlock could not help himself. He cried out in surprise and pain and the heat of it ran straight to his cock. John spanked him over and over and Sherlock was confused for the first time. He wanted it. He revelled in how John's left hand pushed down on his back incapacitating him and how his other hand smacked him over and over. This pain made him hard quickly and the embarrassment from that made Sherlock bury his face in the pillow. He rutted against the scratchy wool and by no fault of his own he was near completion. 

 

He heard John's voice in his ear reminding him through the haze of pain, "Remember the safeword, Sherlock, if it gets to be too much."

 

Sherlock almost used it right then and there. What if he came? It would be too embarrassing, too much too soon in front of John, and he shivered to think what John would do to punish him after that. 

 

The smacks on his bottom did not lessen in number but became softer hits as John asked, "Why were you late, Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow and gasped, "A case...I was on a...," he moaned and dug his hips into the bed as John struck him hard again.

 

"And is a case more important than being on time when your Dom calls you?"

 

Sherlock growled his answer, "Yes...sir," and John stopped entirely. Sherlock was gasping for air in this reprieve, but he had a feeling John wasn't finished with him yet.

 

John took a step back and commanded, "You think it is more important than meeting me? Why?"

 

Sherlock knew this did not please John but did not hesitate with his answer, "For many reasons. A case could mean life or death or it could result in a murderer walking free from his crimes," he shrugged his shaking naked shoulders, "and I enjoy them. Sir."

 

John contemplated this and for a long moment Sherlock thought his reasoning wasn't going to be good enough for John until finally the other man nodded his head and said, "Thank you for your honesty. Are you a police officer?"

 

"No, a consulting detective. The only one in the world."

 

"And did you find this murderer then?"

 

Sherlock's cock was beginning to wilt under the direct questioning and searing fire that was his arse at the moment and he was glad of it. His body was strung tight like a wire and coming onto John's bed was the last thing he wanted to do tonight.

 

"No," he cleared his throat, "I was at Bart's in the middle of an experiment with Molly when you texted me."

 

John paused and then asked, "Then why are you here, Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock pulled himself half upright on the bed with shaking arms and said, "Because I thought I'd lost you...disrespected you so much you would never speak to me again."

 

John's eyes met his and, with a smile, he leaned over and kissed him, right on the mouth. It was chaste and quick but Sherlock was left breathless, his cock twitching. It was amazing how responsive Sherlock's body was to John's touch. 

 

John motioned at the pile of discarded clothing on the floor and said, "Well, get to it then."

 

Sherlock looked around the room, confused.

 

"Get to...what exactly?"

 

"Your case. It's obviously important to you and, like I said, as long as you tell me the truth we won't have a problem. Just remember to let me know if you are going to be late in the future."

 

"Really? I wasn't aware you would be so...lenient with things like that, sir." Sherlock wasn't sure if this was a trick or if John was being serious.

 

John sighed and explained, "I'm not into mind tricks, Sherlock. I gave you permission to go, so get dressed and go. I will text you tomorrow and, if you are finished with your case, we can discuss a time to meet up again."

 

Sherlock blushed pink as he got up from the bed, acutely aware of John's stare as he dressed. He was elated, not only was John speaking to him again, but he was willing to keep meeting up regardless of cases. He smiled as John stood and opened the door and almost took a step backward as a thought came to him.

 

He held up a finger and said, "Wait...you are a retired doctor. An army doctor."

 

John said, "Yes," and cleared his throat. He looked confused, unsure of where Sherlock was going with this.

 

"Any good?"

 

"Very good."

 

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

 

John's brow was furrowed just like the first time they'd met as he answered, "Hmm, yes."

 

"Bit of trouble too, I bet." Sherlock needed an assistant...it was too late to call Molly and he knew he could break into Bart's easily at this time of night. 

 

"Of course, yes, enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John confirmed with a quick nod.

 

"Want to see some more?"

 

"Oh God, yes," John grabbed his keys and led the way out of the room, cane laying forgotten on the floor.

 

As they hailed a taxi Sherlock thought that maybe, just maybe, this could work. Perhaps John could provide him with the distraction Sherlock so badly needed and Sherlock could give John the excitement he obviously craves by having him assist on cases. 

 

Either way, Sherlock was happy to have John sitting next to him in the cab along with the anticipation of the case even though his bottom smarted from the furious spanking he'd just received. 

 

He glanced to his right at John who was looking out the window into darkness and asked, "How would you like to split a man's skull open with an axe, sir?"

 

John, and the taxi driver, both looked at him like he'd suddenly grown two heads and Sherlock laughed.

 

Yes, Sherlock was sure he could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions and comments are gladly welcome.


End file.
